


Autobiography

by aradinfinity



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8727622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aradinfinity/pseuds/aradinfinity
Summary: I'm not publishing this for you. I'm publishing this to help me get through, past, and around things.





	

I'm cold.  
I'm cold, and my head hurts. My head always hurts, but now it's doing so particularly aggressively. It wants me to do something about it, but I don't want to get up- taking pills would make me cold, and probably wake someone up- and I'm trying to sleep, but that's failing.  
I'm cold, and my head hurts, and my thoughts are running in circles like a small rodent in a vague, generic, circle-shaped maze. I roll over, lift my head, crack one light sensitive eye; I've only been laying here twenty minutes? I don't understand how that's possible. Ordinarily, I think slowly. Now, my thoughts are going faster than time seems to be.  
So I do the first thing that comes to mind that can make it stop. I turn on my computer, and begin to write.

\---

I'm in a car, and a conversation is happening to me that I don't want. My father has arrived unexpectedly to pick me up from work, instead of my mother, and is grilling me on my work on getting a job that will actually pay, instead of just being volunteer work.  
He asks if I've applied to something I've never heard of. I tell him no.  
He asks if I've accessed resources I didn't know were available. I tell him no.  
I would explain some of this to him, to the point where answering his question would be redundant. He's smart. He can figure it out. But he's made a habit out of interrupting this after the first few clauses and asking if the result is what it seems to be. This happens far more often than not. I've learned that he doesn't want the why unless he's asking for it; he only wants the answer to the exact question he asked.  
He asks me if I've considered presenting more stereotypically. I tell him that I don't know what he means. He seems to be suggesting that I present as a man- he's taking umbrage with my skirts, with my purse. I tell him that I'm not going to misgender myself. He says that's not what he means, and may or may not explain; I don't remember. I'm not having fun.  
I'm facing away from him, looking out the window. My responses are taking more and more time for me to formulate, and sound less and less coherent when I say them. My hands are in my lap, with the book I intended to continue reading on the way home. Short of explicitly saying, I'm trying to project that I'm not comfortable with this conversation.  
After a little while, I do explicitly say it. He tells me something about the world not catering to what makes you comfortable, and being placed in situations that make you uncomfortable and dealing with that part of being an adult.  
That's what I'm trying to do. I've learned that the easiest way to deal with being uncomfortable is to remove myself from the situation. I can't explain this, of course; at this point, it's an effort to not start crying. I've never done well with confrontations, and he's asking me about things I would have been doing if I had known of them, and seems to be treating my ignorance as reason to be upset with me. Worse, I can tell from the way he grows more terse and clipped, he's getting more and more grumpy. This distresses me; I've learned that, in his words, shit rolls downhill. When my father is grumpy, I almost inevitably wind up with a confrontation I don't want, which leads to me feeling guilty about whatever it was about, which leads to dread over the next confrontation.  
At some point, he asks me what I'm afraid of. I tell him that I'm terrified that my best isn't good enough.  
He explodes.  
He's not yelling by volume, but by tone. He tells me that I have not been trying. He's going off on a monologue, now, and if I listen, I know it's going to hurt. I'm starting to panic. The car is slowing; there's a traffic light up ahead, and I know the way home from here.  
“That's it,” I say. “I'm getting out.”  
“What, here?” he says. This seems to stop him in his tracks.  
“Yeah,” I say.  
“The car's moving,” he says.  
I've been undoing my seatbelt since I stated my intention. I open the door. “Now it's not,” I tell him, and get out. “I'll see you at home.”  
I hear “What the fuck is your problem?” before I close the door. I take a few steps over to the sidewalk, go to the street light, press it. I don't know what I would do if he got out of the car.  
He doesn't. There's a tense moment, but then the traffic light turns green; he speeds off, and I follow on foot. I left my book in there. I hope he doesn't do anything with it. (He wouldn't damage it on purpose, but if he's as annoyed as he sounded, he might on accident.)  
Part of the way home, I realize that I forgot my key this morning. I text mom to let her know plans have changed and I'll be walking home. I also let her know I forgot my key, so if she could unlock the door that would be great.  
When I get there, the door's locked. I don't want to knock, because I don't want my dad to answer. I go around back. That door is locked, too, and mom isn't at her usual place. I check my phone- one text from her, asking where I am. I tell her I'm home, but locked out, and head back out front.  
For some reason, I check the front door again, and it's unlocked. I go in and start unloading; mom catches me in the hallway. She went out to the street corner to look for me, and we missed each other. She chides me mildly for getting out of a moving car, and I apologize. I won't do it again, I tell her. Unless dad starts yelling me in a moving car again, I don't tell her. I tell her I don't feel comfortable in the family room tonight, and I'm going to be spending it in my room. She understands, and is sympathetic.  
Once I'm sure dad's upstairs, I go back down for dinner. I spend some time with mom, and then go back up to my room. I don't lock myself in; there's no locks on my door. If dad wanted to, he could force his way in to continue the confrontation, ask me questions, yell at me again.  
He doesn't. I don't know how to feel, but I'm tired. This has all been a lot more anxiety than I was expecting. My friends and girlfriend reassure me over Skype. I get virtual affection, to counterbalance the lack of physical affection.  
Sleep is easy, and empty of dreams. In the morning, I'm still tired, but not as much. My head still hurts more than usual, but not as much.  
After I'm up a little, and have composed what I want to say, I go into dad's office. We talk. He lectures me a little. He tells me that getting out of a moving car is for when someone is physically threatening you. I nod dumbly. It was the only way to remove myself from the situation I could think of. Talking hadn't worked. Implications hadn't worked. The only thing I had left was physically getting out of the car.  
I don't explain this to him. I have trouble talking about my feelings with my voice.  
I do tell him that it felt like he was belittling my feelings and effort. He acknowledges that he understands what he said sounded like that, even though it's not what he meant; he clarifies what he meant, and I take it much better when it's done gently, when he's not grumpy. I don't know what to say next, so I take the dog for a walk to think about it.  
Some time later, while looking for jobs to apply to, I have an anxiety attack. I can feel it in my guts, a sick tenseness that crawls up my stomach into my gullet and makes me quaver. I know it's coming on, but can't do anything about it. I crawl into bed and hold my stuffed animals tight after my friends fail to help. Slowly, I calm down.  
I finish filling out the job application, holding my little dog like a security blanket. I Skype mom, saying I need a therapist.


End file.
